Music though the Ages

Hello.

You know, I am not a vindictive person. When I'm a working as a Grunt at Booth and Noble, I don't normally have the desire to leave the store and follow the annoying brigade down the street. Occasionally, though -- and admittedly, this is only on the rarest of occasions; the ones that call for immediate action -- I want to follow my music customers out into the world. I am curious to see what happens when they leave our music department. Do they wander aimlessly through life, as they do through my department? Do they go into their car and sit for a few minutes, wondering why it isn't already running? Do they get that same quizzical look in their eye -- the one when they're asking me to look up George Lucas's film Schindler's List, and are just so surprised when I tell them that it doesn't exist -- when they look in the mirror? ("Hey, that looks just like me, and that looks just like my room! But backwards! Where is that strange, magical world? This is astounding! I should go tell the Grunt at Booth and Noble about this!")

I am curious about this, because I have no idea how some of these people function in their daily interactions in real life, outside Booth and Noble. On the one hand, I'm sure they have figured out a way -- much like a pianist with no hands can play with his/her feet, or a blind person uses a dog to help him/her see. They must have the ability to function in the real world, simply because they DO exist, and we DO close the store, so they MUST go somewhere outside of the hours of 9am and 10pm. On the other hand, I can conceive of no way that, using the same formula of interaction that they use with me, they can possibly have any sort of functional interaction outside in the real world.

For example, a customer calls me the other day. He asks what appears to be a pretty common-sense question, especially for someone calling on the phone:
"Do you have Atom Egoyan's film Exotica?"

I think that we do, and as I am out on the music floor anyway (and not behind the cage-like counter), I decide to go check. I walk over to the drama section and say,
"Just to confirm, you wanted Egoyan's Exotica?"
"No," he says, and I stop in my tracks. He continues: "I wanted Egoyan's Exotica."
"Yes," I respond, "Egoyan's Exotica."
"No, listen to me. Egoyan's Exotica. E-G-O-Y-A-N."
"YES, EGOYAN. Exotica."
"Do you have it?"
By this time I was at the drama section. We did have it, but I was getting so annoyed I nearly threw it out the window. "Yes, we have it," I sighed. "Do you want me to hold it for you?"

"No, thank you, I was just checking."

Checking? CHECKING? He is that curious in our stock count that he needs to check every so often. I imagine he calls up all the other stores in the area:
"Hello, Target? I was wondering if you had Green Towels?"
"Just to confirm, do you mean Green Towels?"
"NO, I mean GREEN Towels. G-R-E-E-N."

Sometimes, I'm immensely curious to see if people share the types of information they share with me when they go into other stores. Do you remember Who Wants to be a Millionaire? When they were going to answer a question, a contestant would often explain how they knew the answer. It might be a minute long story. Imagine that, only without the dramatic music of the show or the wackiness of Meredeth Vieira. Oh, and it's deathly dull.

For example, yesterday a woman comes up to me clutching in her hands a CD of Mozart music. She remarks as I scan the CD in that "I love Mozart. He is my favorite." I grunt. She continues:
"I think that Mozart is hot."
I want to ask...I want to ask so badly, but I also know that if I ask I will be stuck talking to this woman forever. So I don't.

Thankfully, I didn't have to ask. She continued:

"I am going to get a tattoo of Mozart next week. It won't match my other two tattoos, but it will still look good."

Still, I continue the transaction: "That will be $15.62."

But she ignores me and instead of paying, decides it would be a good idea to explain to me further about her decision to get a Mozart Tattoo:

"Well, I want to get it, but I will only get it if I get good news..." She pauses, expecting me to respond with the only appropriate response. I do not, and respond with the only possible response:

"That will be $15.62"

She is not fazed. "I mean, in a few days, they might be pulling the plug on my mother. We'll see about the tattoo then."

At this point, I really want her to pay. I want her to take her CD and leave. In fact, I am very insistent upon this. "$15.62," I repeat. What I want to ask, though, is which is the good news in that situation? Does she get the tattoo if her mother is off the machine? Or does she get the tattoo if they don't pull the plug? Is death or recovery the good news?

It are these questions that keep me up at night.

Other customers aren't quite as intriguing. One woman comes up to me carrying five Pop Standards CDs -- you know, the Michael Buble, the Tony Bennett, the Barbra Streisand. She comes up to the counter and says, "I found everything I wanted, except for one thing." Thinking she wants to order it, I open up the computer. "What can I find for you?"

"No," she says, "you have it, but I don't want a used CD."

Now, Booth and Noble doesn't sell used CDs. So I tell her this. She responds, "but the CD is open!"

We've had problems with shoplifting recently, so I am immediately concerned. Rarely, however, are our Pop Standards shoplifted (you don't find many 80 year old people looking for the five finger discount. Mainly they look for the bathroom). I ask her to show me. We walk over to the section and she points out the CD -- the plastic wrap is slightly peeling at the corner.

"You know this is still new, don't you? That the CD is fine, never been played? That this is just the wrapping?"

"Yes, but I don't want a used one. I want my own one."

I have learned by now not to argue, so I just nod and say, "alright." She watches me take the CD back to the counter, remove some scotch tape from the black dispenser at my side, and tape the slight rip. I set the CD aside and scan in her merchandise.

Like I said, what does she do when she leaves? Does she walk into her house, sit on her couch and stare at the blank television, unsure if she should turn it on, because if she does, she will be watching a TV show that (shock!) others have seen?

I wonder these things, and more.